The Capitol Games
by Meowlister Memsie
Summary: A series of one-shots, each one in the perspective of a Capitol citizen who has been sent into the Hunger Games as a tribute. [A HG fanfic]
1. Part I

**Welcome to a series of oneshots, each one in the perspective of a tribute from the Capitol.**

I sob into my filthy palms, my blue jacket frosty. My blonde curls hang in grease, volume and style completely gone. It's so strange to see my natural hair; it's usually in a fun wig.

It's also strange to see Capitol children in a Hunger Games arena; they're usually sitting back to watch the fun. But it's no longer fun for me. I've witnessed four brutal, gruesome deaths. Just a year ago, I was screaming at the television screen, "You idiot! Don't run, fight!" I now understand the struggles.

These godforsaken mountains are making me sick. Just the other day, I found the frozen-stiff corpse of Lilac LeBeou in a small crevice in the ice. Her blank violet eyes were equally as terrifying as the iced tears on her blue cheeks. I've seen four other tributes get slaughtered, and I quickly evacuated the area. I've never been around long enough to completely comprehend the state of their bodies until Lilac.

I look about to the vast mass of mountains before me. A blaze flickers on a mountain far from mine. Another tribute has given in to the frigid cold. A peak to my left has bloody snow scattered all around. I cringe at the site of Victoria Vesualla's end. She was the third murder I've spectated; I still have nightmares of Xander Johansen slashing Victoria's stomach open.

I had always viewed the Games as entertainment, the victors as gods, and the blood and tears as play. That's long gone. With nine of us left, fifteen families will never see their beloved child again. I regret cheering for these deaths. I regret opposing the districts. I regret falling for the Capitol's glittery facade.

So many tributes this year had came in prissy and bratty, just like a Capitol child would behave after a lifetime of riches. In the training center, some had still made sure to put together a fashionable outfit. At the camoflage station, they exclaimed, "That's not pink. That's fuschia!"

The blare of a cannon arrests my thoughts. A mountain far across is now stained crimson. A hovercraft arrives in the distance and collects the deceased. _That's not fire engine red. That's blood red._


	2. Part II

**A short update.**

I clutch the doll in my hands. I don't care if I look foolish with it. I saw the reaping, I saw Fiore Montgomery's little sister give her this. But Fiore is dead. Because of me.

She has never done anything to me. So why did I kill her? Yes, I'm not credited with her slaughter, but I'm responsible. I didn't warn her when Xander was creeping up behind her; I just ran. Now here she lays, her throat slit and her eyes as dull as I feel. She promised her sister that she'd return with this doll in her hand, but that will never happen.

I feel remorse. All my life, I called tributes wimps for not holding their ground. For dying. While everyone despises the districts for this, I don't blame them. I hate myself. I hate the Capitol.

Across the valley is another peak. A figure in a blue parka skitters over the snow. Even from here I can see a head of blond. I don't want that person to die. I don't want anyone to die.

I look at the figurine in my fist. If Fiore can't bring it home, I will. I'll apologize profusely for her demise, I'll ensure her sister will forgive her for breaking that promise.

The crunch of footsteps sounds behind me. I turn to see Xander, lips slick with red and knife soaring to my heart. I duck, and the blade lands in the snow. I grab it, Xander's face still bearing that expression of insane menace.

I don't want anybody to die, except this monster.


	3. Part III

A hot tear slips from my lashes, and it glides down my blue cheek before freezing. I clutch my stomach as if I can stop the hunger, the pain. Another tear breaks loose as I flex my stiff fingers. Never in my life have I been so miserable. I wish I can have a blanket. I wish I can have some steamy soup.

Then again, if I had one wish, I'd get an airlift out of this frozen hell.

I pull my flimsy parka tighter around my body. I bury my face into the frosted fabric, and I shut my watering eyes. Nobody has to see me like this. Though it is absolute torture to be here in this arena, I'm not going to insult the districts by asking for freedom. I mean, seriously? We're only being fed our own medicine. Since the moment I was brought into this biased world, I've been at the top of the food chain. Only the best clothing, only the best toys, only the best medical attention, only the best home. I've been walking all over the districts, who are the real laborers.

 _I'm such a selfish bitch. I deserve everything in this arena._

I've always thought that the districts' complaints were petty; I've always been told of their alleged ungratefulness, of their stupid and vain uprisings. I've always believed that their living conditions are not too far off from ours. But the moment I saw those people, my stony heart shattered. They're so skinny, their skin stretches over their prominent bones. Some don't eat for days, weeks even. Some don't eat for a month, resulting in their deaths. The air is filthy, the homes are crumbling, and the products they work so hard to produce doesn't even go to them. It's all about the Capitol.

I lift my head, my eyes scanning the icy landscape. I choke back a sob at the stains of red, just like so many tributes had in the previous Games. I know whose blood spilled where. That mountain just ahead? Kyla Beale and Phillip Plyman. That frozen pond in the valley below? Grace Madden. And there are so many more. I even killed Viviana Cavender. When I was fleeing from the Cornucopia, I slammed right into her.

 _Kill_ , my mentor had advised. _Kill anyone that you find, Blythe. This isn't a compassion pageant, it's the Hunger Games._

And kill I did. I grabbed the nearest rock, and I backed her into a steep slope. She looked at me, her chocolate eyes pleading. _No!_ she had screamed. _No, Blythe, please! I'll do anything you want, just please let me go!_ I had closed my eyes for a second, begging myself to pretend I wasn't about to murder somebody. I hoped and prayed that everything was just some bad dream.

But, of course, it wasn't.

She begged for mercy, she begged for her life. She said that she'd never bother me again. I didn't listen. I hit her, and hit, and hit her. Viviana ended up on the ground in a fetal position, her hands shielding her head. She sobbed with every strike. I couldn't find the courage to stop, to open my eyes and look at what I'd done. Only when she grew silent did I finally see. I finally saw the destruction. Viviana was never a bad girl. In fact, she was the kindest person I knew. She defended me when kids at school teased me. She let me sit with her during lunch. She gave me her home number, telling me to call if I needed to talk. And I killed her. She'll never go home to her parents, to her little brother. No one will ever see her again. The corpse that will lay in her casket will not be her. No. Viviana Cavender was a joyful, bright, beautiful, welcoming girl. Not some cold, lifeless body.

Tears well up, and I don't even try to stop them this time. I let them drip down, just like I let Viviana bleed. A weight slams into my gut, causing me to sob.

"I'M SORRY!" I scream at the top of my lungs, not caring if anybody can hear me. "I'M SO, SO SORRY! I SORRY, DISTRICTS! I'M SORRY, VIVIANA! _I'M SORRY, I'M SORRY!_ "

I wheeze, and I suck in a breath. A feral, guttural screech makes me gasp and shudder and cry harder. I skim my surroundings for its source. Then I realize that it was me.

A fresh flood cascades down my face. Fighting against my stiff limbs, I stand. The icy wind howls and whips past me.

"JUST KILL ME!" I bellow. "COME ON, JUST END IT ALREADY! I DON'T DESERVE TO LIVE ANYMORE! _PLEASE_!"

My reply is silence.

I stoop down, and I scoop up a handful of snow. My fingers grow numb, but I don't give a crap anymore. Directing all of my misery and anger into the tiny snowball, I hurl it off the mountainside. It flies into the desolate world before shattering upon impact with a boulder.

 _I wish I could just die like that._


	4. Part IV

**WARNING: This chapter contains content that may not be suitable for all readers. Viewer discretion is advised.**

 **This is a chapter will be posted as a separate one shot as well.** **Enjoy!**

I inhale the frosty air around me. I let my eyes flutter shut, the light snowflakes landing on my face. After several moments, I open up.

The snow is red.

I sit up. All about me is a crimson wonderland. Beads of blood hang from my parka, the color of the icicles that dangle from the overhang is, once again, red. I grin.

Glancing down to my clothes, I see that nearly every inch is drenched with memories of those kids. The wind howls just like they had. The ice is as cold as their lifeless bodies. _Oh, how I would_ kill _to watch the life drain from their eyes again,_ I think with a cackle.

I close my eyes again, and I envision my favorite victim: Willa Preston. Her blue eyes were full of fear and tears, her small frame quivering as she sobs. _Oh, please don't hurt me!_ the little bitch had begged. _Please, please! I'll do anything!_ She didn't shut up! Why don't they ever shut up? Had I known she was a loud one, I would've gotten an axe to really hack that bitch up. But I didn't have one, so I just accepted the opportunity to make my mark. I pinned her down, and I cut her wherever I could reach. My slices were shallow so she wouldn't die right away. What I did after was surely censored.

I tug my bag to my side, and I zip it open. Peering inside, I admire the glossy heart that sits on a pack of crackers. The blood has seeped into the packaging, therefore soaking the food. Some of it has been absorbed by the sack's fabric, the liquid freezing. Licking my chapped lips, I close the bag.

Pushing myself up from the cherry ground, I skim the horizon. I just know that I'm being broadcasted right now. Impossibly, my grin broadens. Everybody thought that I was weak, vulnerable, _innocent_. My family and neighbors were already preparing my _inevitable_ funeral when I was reaped. My mentor _refused_ to represent me. The other tributes _laughed_ at me during training. Those Gamemakers gave me a _four_. The sponsors thought I was a _joke_.

I look to my feet, my beloved weapon at them. I feel my lips twist into a nefarious smirk as I grab its handle. The long knife almost slips from my fingers, the accumulated blood decreasing friction. I swipe the blade through the air, flecks of the fluid flying off.

"Now, would you look at that?" I giggle, my head tilting to the side as I appraise the knife. "The 'four' has a knife! Who would've thought? After all, he's just a blubbering idiot who can't even hurt an injured fly, begging to be put out of its misery."

I cut my dialogue short, the blood now dripping onto my knuckles.

"I guess that's the difference between him and I, Xander Johansen. See here, I would've killed that fly without a second thought."

Concluding with a wicked smile, I trudge to the overhang. I tuck my knife under my backpack, and I curl up against the stone wall. The sun disappearing, I doze off.

 _..._

I'm pulled from my tranquil sleep by a rough shake. Swatting away whatever woke me up, I prepare for rest again. However, I am slapped across the face.

My eyes bolt open, and I sit up. I reach to my right for my knife, only to find nothing. I turn tomy surroundings. The night sky is devoid of stars; the only object in it is a full moon. Everywhere, the snow is crimson. The ice is red, and blood drips from any vegetation. It's like my little paradise has expanded. _But how?_

I search around for my attacker, a fist raised in defense. "Come on out. Come out, come out wherever you are," I sing. My response is silence.

Frowning, I touch my throbbing cheek. The wind couldn't have done this. Also, it couldn't have taken my stuff. Are the Gamemakers just fucking with me? If so, it's not very funny.

"Why?" a voice asks. I turn around to see my very first prey: Hercules Pfeiffer. He looms over me, his shady figure in the same state in which the hovercraft had picked him up in. The jacket that covers his chest is permeated with red; I know that there are stab wounds beneath. "Why'd you kill me?"

"Why?" another one says behind me. Victoria Vesualla stands before me, a shadow casting over half of her mutilated face. "Why'd you kill me?"

"Why?" Lucas Patton asks as he steps out from nowhere, an icicle protruding from his forehead. "Why'd you kill me?"

One by one, my victims appear, those same two sentences on their lips. Hadley del Mar. Grace Madden. Quentin Hinckley. Abriana Gilligan. Tristan Gallardo. Fiore Montgomery.

"Why?" a soft, angelic voice inquires. I don't have to turn anywhere; the newcomer is directly before me, the semicircle complete. Unlike the others, this person isn't concealed by any means whatsoever, the full moon right above her halo of stained blonde curls. Willa Preston is emotionless, her body sliced open from the chin down. Dirt and blood mars her skin and clothing. "Xander Johansen, why'd you kill us?"

My breath catches in my throat. They're dead, they're all dead. What the hell are they doing here? _THIS IS NOT OKAY._

In uncanny unison, the zombies take a step forward. The circle is tightening. "Xander Johansen, why'd you kill us?" they say blankly, their eyes (though some are missing theirs) not leaving me.

I freeze in my place, my muscles refusing to function. A heavy weight slams into my gut, almost knocking me out. Dread spreads through me like a wildfire.

"Y-you're n-not s-s-s-supposed to b-be here," I stutter. "Y-y-you're a-all d-dead. I k-killed you!"

They take another step, sending chills through my spine. "Why'd you kill us, Xander? Why?"

My ears begin to ring, my heart begins to pound.

"Xander Johansen, why'd you kill us?" they chant in creepy tones. My vision goes blurry. "Why'd you kill us?"

"I don't know!" I scream at them. I suck in a breath before speaking again. "I DON'T KNOW, OKAY? LEAVE ME ALONE!"

From behind the line of my prey, the other tributes, alive or deceased, materialize.

"Why'd you kill them, Xander?" Lilac LeBeou asks, the frozen tears on her ice-blue cheeks reflecting moonlight. "Why'd you kill them?"

"Why'd you kill us, Xander?" says Caden Conrad from the first set of tributes, Fiore's rag doll in his bloody fist. "Why'd you kill us?"

"Why'd you kill, Xander?" they all shout. I watch them as they join hands together. "Why'd you kill?"

A wave of nausea and fear slaps me hard. Doubling over, I retch until I'm positive that I'll puke my guts out. Instantly, the vomit disappears.

"WHY'D YOU KILL, XANDER?" the tributes bellow. Blood pounds in my ears, my limbs feel heavy and bile rises in my throat. "WHY'D YOU KILL?"

"STOP IT!" I screech, and I clamp my palms over my ears as if I can block the onslaught. " _JUST STOP IT!_ "

"WHY?" they scream at deafening volumes. "XANDER JOHANSEN, TELL US WHY!"

Almost as if someone has flicked a switch, all numbness is gone. With no strength or willpower left, I collapse into a sobbing mess. Hot tears stream down my face. I clutch my stomach as desperation eats away. I direct all my troubles into a feral yell.

"I'm sorry," I wail. "I'm so, _so_ SORRY! I'M SORRY I KILLED YOU GUYS! PLEASE, I'M SORRY _, I AM SORRY_!"

Pain repeatedly batters me as I press my palms to my soaking eyes. My throat goes raw with my profuse apologies. I will myself to stop crying, but I just can't.

As my sobs turn quiet, I hear the soft crunch of snow. I look up to see that Willa has broken from the crowd. She returns the stare with a blank face. Wordlessly, she procures a knife, _my_ knife. The thick layer of blood, both fresh and crusty, is the same. I've never wiped the blade clean; it even has Hercules', my very first one.

She offers it to me, and I happily accept.

I pull myself to my feet as Willa returns to her spot in the semicircle. They all train their eyes on me in silence, the moon glinting off their blood.

I avert my attention to the weapon. I look at the crimson tool, and I take a deep breath.

"Why?" I whisper, but I'm sure that they heard it, too. "Why'd I kill?"

And I plunge knife into my heart.


	5. Part V

Red.

All I see is red. It's everywhere. Splattered across the white slopes, lingering in the frigid rivers, staining the frosty blades of grass. For some, it's on his or her hands.

I shake my head. _No_ , I think. _The blood shouldn't be on our hands. It should be on theirs._

I skim my surroundings, my gaze falling on the trees and rock formations. How many? How many seemingly innocent objects hold cameras? Countless, probably. I shoot a glare at them.

Are the Districts enjoying this? Are they enjoying watching us die? I bet they are, the bastards. Oh, the Capitol is selfish and cruel! We're only feeding them their own medicine! Well, those whiny peasants are the selfish and cruel ones! First, they complain about the Games. Then, they start a fucking war to end them. And, last but certainly not the least, they throw us into this hell. Talk about hypocritical!

Placing my hands on my hips, I stare into a rock that surely holds a camera. "Seriously? You're punishing the people that are just trying to keep this country in order? Unbelievable! That's like shooting a baby for crying."

All I get is silence, but I really wasn't expecting anything different from those power-hungry rags.

I shake my head, knowing full well that complaining isn't going to move their heavy hearts. I begin to trudge through the snowy valley. My stomach screams in despair, and I shut my eyes to block it out.

I recall my District mentor telling me to hunt or harvest whenever I need to, but how can I possibly do that? These conditions are absolutely disgusting and defiling. Besides, even if I did want to scavenge like pig-which I do not-there isn't anything to scavenge! This frozen wasteland is, well, _a frozen wasteland_.

Simpletons.

I grit my teeth as another round of howling winds assault me. My hair whips about, striking my numb cheeks and leaving behind stinging sensations. In the back of my mind, I faintly recall the distant screams of desperation I have picked up earlier. A few of my fellow tributes have given into the situation, the districts' savage desires. How can they be such pitiful morons? They're only pleasing them with their fruitless pleading. They act as if survival is impossible. After all, if those weakling Twelves could win, we definitely can. We're the superior race, don't forget that.

Anger boils under my skin, metaphorically cooking me to well done. The rage soon channels to my brain.

"You bags of scum are no better!" I declare. "You're all selfish and bloodthirsty dictators! Down with the districts, DOWN WITH THE DISTRICTS!"

Once again, I'm met by the howling, bitter winds. Sharp pains erupt from my frozen palms. I look to see trickling imprints of my fingernails in the flesh.

Suddenly, everything is interrupted by a pattern of beeps. The electronic song calls to me, catching my attention. From the depths of the swirling snow appears a capsule that's gracefully floating down like an angel. As it nears, I spot the parachute, and joy floods through my veins. I pluck it from the air the moment I am able to, the tones music to my ears.

 _What is it?_ my thoughts ask excitedly. _Hot soup? A jacket? My phone?_

I crack open the shell open to reveal a golden beautifully polished, finely crafted mockingjay pin.


	6. Part VI

I let my eyes flutter shut, the whistling wind like nails on a chalkboard. Ever since life has gone to shit, this is all I do. It's just easier not to see everything. If I don't see, nothing's there, right?

Yeah, right.

This rather simple technique is pretty effective, too. Reality softens, and the pain leaves for little while. It's more dignified than crying, at least. Whining and screaming isn't going to help anyone. Sponsors won't respond to the weak. We should know that better than anybody.

My senses perk at the sound of crunching snow. I look to see the face of my twin brother and fellow tribute, Cohen. At the sight, my heart halts.

"Oh, my gosh," I whisper. "What the hell happened to you?"

His frightened brown eyes meet mine, and a tear cuts through the grime on his cheek. Blood is smeared across, a stark contrast compared to his practically bleach skin.

"What happened to you?" I repeat.

Lips curling back in an attempt to smile, complete pain and horror flashes through him. A shuddering breath escapes me as I search for a clue. Anything, more like it.

"Cohen, I can't help you until you let me. Is somebody coming? Or mutations? Or—"

"Shut up."

Those two words make me stop. "What?"

"I said, shut up." His speech seems pained, desperate almost. It's so unusual and unlike him. If anything, I'm the one who needs an attitude fix.

Cohen shoots a look of finality before stalking off, his black snow boots marching up the slope behind me. Hugging his knees and eyes set on some distant scene, he pointedly ignores me. He's dazed and clearly unfocused.

Confused, I turn to survey the arena around us. What could've happened? I won't know if Cohen won't snap out of it.

I return to his hunched frame. Besides the horror episode on his face, he appears to be okay. Well, as okay as one can be in the Hunger Games.

For a fleeting moment, his gaze meets mine. He quickly resumes his weird state as if I can figure this whole situation just by studying his eyes. Catching on, I crane in attempt to see. He repeatedly shifts at each of my movements, my actions totally in vain.

And then I realize that the giveaway isn't in his eyes.

As my silent brother shuffles about, the collar of his jacket falls. It's only a bit, but it's enough to see the symbol burned into his neck. The backwards _B_ is bold and an identical crimson to the blood on his face.

I leap forward, and before Cohen can react, I rip the rest of the fabric down. He lets out a cry and stuggles beneath my weight.

"What the everliving hell is this?" I shriek as I inspect it. A thin line runs around the letter, the combination resembling a copyright sign. " _What is it?_ "

At last, Cohen manages to push me off. My head spins at the force, and snow showers across my chest. Looking down upon me with tears trickling, he clamps a hand over the wound. But it's not like my cherished technique of blocking out the world; I know it's there, and I can't ignore it.

"Who did that?" I push myself to my feet and I stomp up to him to instill intimidation. "And I swear to shit, you better answer me!"

"Stop it." He stares at my feet, ashamed. "I know what you're going to do, and it'll only hurt you."

"Hurt me?" Crazed laughter tumbles from my lips. "Hurt me? Cohen, I don't know if you've noticed, but there's a fucking _B_ burned into your throat. If I don't do something, who will?"

"Nobody, and that's the point."

Another shrill cackle. "Oh, my gosh, don't tell me you're actually defending this bastard."

His eyes flicker to mine. "Sorry, but I am. She didn't mean it. It's alright, it really is."

 _She?_

With a terrifying aftershock, all the pieces come crashing down into perfect sense.

My jaw sets. Spinning around on my heel, I dash back to my little blue backpack. After tearing the zipper down its path, I reach inside for the lone dagger.

"No!" A force causes my face to dig into the numbing substance on the ground. "You can't do this!"

Any other day, I would've heard how much this means to him and complied. But determination and a thirst for revenge has already infused, my target clouding my thoughts.

I shove Cohen off of me, and I send him a glare. "Oh, yes, I can."

Those four words send me flying down the mountain, his desperate shouts lost to the wind. I clutch my weapon close as I visualize it dripping with a certain liquid.

All I can hear are Mother Nature's howls, and all I can feel are the numbing sensations of cold and sheer hatred. Oh, she is going to _pay_ , even of it's the last thing I do.

For the third time, I laugh. As if that bitch is going to defeat me!

Nearing the valley, I slow to a stop. I skim the environment. If I were a spoiled brat, where would I hide and cower away?

Ha, trick question. I wouldn't hide. I would be so stupid and naïve, I'd be roaming about, convinced that nobody would ever lay a finger on me.

I turn to my left, and I begin to walk down the winding route. The mountains loom over me, almost taunting me with the possibility of being jumped. But I won't let that happen. I'm too pissed and murderous at the moment. I'm ready to slaughter a person.

Besides, as a spoiled brat, I would never take the time and effort to climb. Unless someone is willing to carry me, of course.

The landscape crunches beneath my boots, and I'm gripping the knife so tightly the edges are digging into my flesh. But who cares? Certainly not me. Not when I'm hunting for that weak bit of prey.

Time passes by so quickly I hardly registered it. All I can focus on is not the stinging cold or the numbness in my legs, but the figure that has appeared up ahead. It stands only a few lengths above the mountain's base, and, by the position of its head, it is gazing at the horizon. Not at me.

For a second, I follow the line of sight. I know the Gamemakers are there to surveillance and broadcast everything.

 _Ready a cannon_ , a devilish whisper says in my head, _for tonight, Blythe Montgomery's face will be in the sky_.

I can recognize her, even from this distance. That porcelain skin that's so perfect, it's clearly fake. That pale blonde hair that's so luscious, it's obviously from a bottle. That face that's so perfect and symmetrical, it's no doubt plastic. Many would think her as a goddess with unrivalled beauty. Many would fall head over heels for her at one glance. But I know better. I know that if you were to look deep into her blue eyes, you'd see nothing but a black abyss. I know that if you were to ask for her opinion on something, she wouldn't— _couldn't_ —answer without consulting others. I know that if you were to show even a sliver of dislike towards an aspect of her appearance, she'd cry for hours before getting surgery with her daddy's credit card. I know that if you were to ask her out, she'd check your wallet before replying.

I know that if you were to let her into your life, you'd be dead before you could realize your mistake.

All of my knowledge of Blythe and what she did to Cohen pents up in my body. As I near her, I hear a desperate cry.

"I'M SORRY!" she wails, her red lips parted. "I'M SO, SO SORRY! I'M SORRY, DISTRICTS! I'M SORRY, VIVIANA! _I'M SORRY, I'M SORRY!"_

I almost scream with her, but not for the same reason. Sorry? She's _sorry?_ She thinks that sorry can fix all the crap she's committed in her short, pathetic life? Well it can't. Sorry can't fix your supremecy to the districts; sorry can't fix whatever the hell she did to Viviana—though I can assume that she was her killer; sorry can't fix the physical and emotional torture she inflicted on Cohen. In fact, she's only apologizing because karma caught the tail of her designer coat.

Rage roaring through my gut, I march up the white mountainside, my eyes trained on the platinum hair flying about her shoulder blades.

"JUST KILL ME!" she bellows. "COME ON, JUST END IT ALREADY! I DON'T DESERVE TO LIVE ANYMORE! PLEASE!"

She's only doing that for sympathy. A beautiful, remorseful wrongdoer will win anyone's heart—and their money.

I pick up the pace, my stomach churning and fingers white from my grip on the hilt.

In a single, fluid move, Blythe stoops down and scoops up a handful of snow. With a cry, she sends it off the edge, and for a fleeting moment, I pictured her slender frame desperately searching for a hold before plummeting down.

I reach out, and like I did to Cohen forever ago, I snatch her collar. As I pull back, she lets out a scream, her limbs flailing.

Wrapping an arm around her throat, I yell, "Oh, sorry, huh? Sorry, you are? No you're not." The words tumble out of my mouth like vomit, my anger the sole source of energy.

She struggles, her head wrenching to the side to look at me. Her eyes widen. "Stop!" she says. "Let me go! Don't do this, please don't do this!"

"Oh, but why not?" I ask in a sickly sweet voice. "Just a second ago, you were begging for it."

Her breaths hitch. "I-I didn't mean it like that. I m-meant—"

"That it was all a show?" She gulps as she wrestles a bit more. "That you're nothing but a lying bitch?"

Blythe whimpers, and she tugs forward to free herself. I cackle, my arms forcing her closer. A glint catches my attention.

Perched on her left hand is the ring, a fine piece of jewlery. The gold band snakes around her finger before entwining into a face. Embedded with rubies, the B appears almost as if it were mocking me.

Tears brim my eyes as the image of a flame, rising from a plastic lighter, licking the surface of the ring enters my mind. The metal grows piping hot, and in a graceful execution, brings itself down onto an expanse of flesh.

Suddenly, in a shout of determination, she throws her body forward, and due to my death grip, sends us rolling down the mountain.

I open my mouth to scream, but snow fills my mouth, making me choke. Rocks and twigs bite at me and I feel nauseous. Somewhere along the way, I lose hold on Blythe. A while afterwards, I lose hold of my knife.

Finally, my body comes to a halt as I bang my jaw on yet another rock. My vision falls into focus, and I begin to hack up snow and dirt. Ache is engulfing me, and it seems as if my brain is upside down.

However, through the midst of all the disorientation, I hear the crunch of snow gradually getting quieter.

I force myself to my feet. My head spins, but I can still see the form of Blythe several lengths ahead, sprinting as fast as her legs can carry her.

Brushing snow from my hair, I skim the ground, finding the knife a bit away. I dash towards it, and I pick it up. Turning around, I throw my arm behind my head.

The blade soars through the air at such great a speed, I can hear it whistle. I nearly shout in glee as it catches Blythe in the calf, causing blood to spurt onto the ice and her to topple over. Being far more fit, I reach her in a few strides.

When my foot touches the ground beside her, it slips, but I compose myself. My toe has cleared away a layer of snow, revealing a stretch of solid water beneath. Glancing about my surroundings, I notice a circular indentation running around us, signifying a lake.

But whatever.

I rip the dagger from her flesh, earning a sob from Blythe.

"That's right," I spit, "it doesn't feel so good to be preyed on, now does it? Feel the wrath of the oppressed."

"I'm sorry!" she says, hot tears trickling down her cheeks. "I'm sorry for everything I've done. I can change! I can change if you give me the chance!"

I let out a bitter laugh. " _Chance?_ Give you the _chance?_ Honey, you've had you're chance—you've plenty! But you never changed!"

"I can!" she protests again. "Please, just put the knife down!"

"No, I don't think I should." Dropping to one knee, I lower my face until it hovers a mere inch from hers. "Listen, peach," I say, "I think it's time you stop your little bargains and empty promises, hm?"

With fearful eyes, she looks at me. "Oh, my gosh," she says, "is this about—"

"Yes, it's about that!" I screech, and she winces. "A man gives you his time, his affections, his life, and you stomp all over it! You had to be such a fucking whore! Cheating on him with his best friend! Seriously, that is disgusting!"

"Holy shit, let that go! That was last month ago!"

"I would've if you just left," I reply dangerously low. "But you didn't. You just kept on coming back, almost as if you were sorry and still have feelings. Just waiting for a confession of true love. Than you laughed and burned a _B_ like he was nothing but your property!"

The fury is eating me from the inside out. All I want to do is stab her—stab her so she can feel pain too.

"And I'm gonna make you pay."

Rolling over to pin her down, I bring the tip of my dagger over Blythe's flawless cheek, blood gushing out of the shallow wound. She cries, just like the weak bitch she is. She squirms beneath me under the false hope that she can throw me off. Just for that, I slice her forehead.

"Not so pretty now, huh?"

I touch the point to the corner of her puckered lips, and I trace its outline, a red line in its wake. I ruin her nosejob. I enlarge her ear piercings. I cut her eyebrows. I draw out her cheekbones.

I mutilate her until surgery can't fix her.

It takes forever or a minute, whichever it is. All I know is that by the time the cannon blared throughout the arena, her face was a mass of crimson. Her blue eyes are still open, the only clean area due to her tears.

My hand on her jaw, I push her head back, exposing her neck. Going as deep as I can, I carve out a capital _C._

I climb off of Blythe's corpse, and I walk several lengths away, my soles slipping on the frozen lake. The trademark hovercraft appears in the pale sky. One crane lift later, Blythe is gone, the red snow the only clue she was ever here.

My body straightens as I am freed of the burden that is Blythe Montgomery. No longer do I have to worry of her killing everything she touches. I took good care of that.

As I set off back to my camp, my heart jumps as my feet are almost swept out from under me. I look down to see that my clumsiness has cleared away the snow coating the ice.

My reflection stares back at me, brown eyes and all. I observe the cuts from my tumble on my face, the bruise from that damned stone on my chin, and the backwards B burned into my neck.

"You're a mess, Cohen," I say. "You gotta clean yourself up."


End file.
